


Please don't hurt me

by JackTheWolf



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blood and Injury, Crack Treated Seriously, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Crack, Grumpy Old Men, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Men Crying, Mild Sexual Content, Not Really Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 12:25:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17022591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JackTheWolf/pseuds/JackTheWolf
Summary: “I’m afraid, Jack.”He whispers with that dark smoke of a voice of his, almost so silently that it can’t be heard, broad shoulders sagging as they finally let go of the tension there, an expression of defeat that should never be worn by him, not now, not ever.“Gabriel… You don’t get afraid, you never are,” he answers, voice gravel and growls, tiny cracks and threads coiling into the skin of his chest, slowly tightening and constricting his breathing, “You never could, except-”“Except being afraid of losing you.”





	Please don't hurt me

**Author's Note:**

> So this is something that came from goofing around on discord and a couple of funny quotes rendered by this inspirational quote bot thingie...  
> And it turned really angsty and goofy?  
> Oh well, have a take on their reunion.
> 
> And for maximum fun, try to spot the five dialogue sentences that is from the bot!

The long-abandoned warehouse shudders in its rusted frames as thundering soundwaves and blinding white-hot plasma snaps in the air. Already broken windows shatter, pieces _glittering_ in the low light as they dance and fall to the floor. Heavy dual shotguns fire to answer the plasma, cracking blasts of pellets meeting cold concrete, exposed pipelines.

They’ve been at this for _hours_ now, chasing each other down like crazy ~~lovers~~ men in the dead of the night. Through long-abandoned neighbourhoods of former thriving family homes now crawling along the landscape as hollow souls, through crumbling factory lots marred with holes of dead space where bombs blew sound into silence, concrete slowly being reclaimed by the ever-patient hands of Mother Nature. _Hours_ of unleashing rounds upon rounds of sharp bullets and snarling plasma into dented Kevlar chest-pieces and fraying leather-jackets, _hours_ of narrow escapes from ricocheting bullets, then rebounding back at the slightest pause of fire.

They don’t remember who started chasing who, lost in a painfully familiar dance of hunting, hiding and hunting again, sharp teeth cracking under pressure as frustration drives them both harder and harder and _harder_ , burning anger bleeding into already boiling red blood as all precautions gets thrown out of destroyed windows.

Somewhere, long behind them, is a complex trail of shredded clothes and empty bullet clips-  
A long coat in ~~soft~~ black leather, fabric torn viciously almost all the way up its back, cruelly stomped into wet gravel-  
An armoured motorcycle jacket in ~~vivid~~ hues of bleeding red and weeping blue, missing an entire arm where it hangs from a rusty chain-link fence, drenched in the rain-

A trail that eventually leads to speckles and splatters of dark blooded bullets embedded in dusty walls, intricate patterns of sweat and grime from ducking brows and whipping heads. It all creates a ~~beautifully~~ twisting pattern that follow the sounds of two _ever-moving_ pairs of combat boots darting around corners.

It always comes to this, always does, this _madness_ of ~~desperatly~~ mindlessly chasing after an inhumanly fast-retreating shadow, of ducking out of the path of incoming projectiles. No matter where one goes, the other show up, always there to ~~colour~~ sabotage the mission, to ~~play~~ ruin and ~~seduce~~ distract the other from the plan, force the focus away from the payload.

It always does come to this, always does, to spit tasting ~~kisses~~ iron, to gasping breathes behind masks damp and shiny with sweat, to muscles _burning_ from overuse as they start ripping apart at the ends, to two predators blind with searing red _rage_ ah they keep refusing to back down from the fight that never seems to end.

They won’t stop,  
-even when the coiling shadows that twirl under ~~chocolate~~ paling skin seem to _finally_ refuse to coalescence back to its complete human form, the owner gliding less and less gracefully through twisting corridors.

They won’t stop,  
-even as the soldier must frequently lean along the walls to keep standing, keep moving on _burning_ feet, ~~golden~~ pale hair sticky with big smears of oxidizing blood and drying sweat.

They won’t stop,  
-even when the dark hallway only leads to a dead end, walls crowded with heavy industrial doors, doors that once opened to ~~boring~~ low-income apartments, doors that now protects only ~~hollow~~ shells of still life, doors barely hanging on their rusting hinges _the only escape left_.

They won’t stop,  
-even when the dark shadow of a ~~man~~ monster bursts into nanite smoke that slithers through the gaps of the only intact and locked door left.

They won’t stop,  
-even as the ~~man~~ soldier is rendered into meticulously dragging his broad and bruised body along the cold concrete wall, needing the support so he won’t collapse down onto his worn knees and fall into the dust.

But then-

After seventeen hours without ~~closure~~ rest, seventeen _loud_ hours without proper ~~satisfaction~~ meals, seventeen _long_ hours where they both didn’t dare to ~~leave~~ blink, seventeen _damned_ hours of firing ~~jokes~~ bullets and receiving ~~laughter~~ lead.

Seventeen _painstakingly_ long hours of keeping all of their senses at maximum sensitivity, forcing their breathing to slow and hearts to still to keep their aim true, seventeen hours of nothing else that thinking of possible tactics and routes and mapping patterns and _how much ammunition do I have left in that clip_ and swallowing curses down to not give your position away and-

For seventeen FUCKING hours, they ~~loved~~ chased each other.

 

_And then they stopped._

 

They finally stopped  
- _backs leaning heavy on the thin, reinforced door that separates them_ -  
as they sat on dust-covered concrete  
- _throats burning and lungs screaming for air_ -  
unable to keep their heads from rolling down until masks meet collarbones clad with bullet-ridden clothing.

Energy sapped from their very bones, rendered unable to even lift a finger from the stone-cold floor, they just sit there and _breathe_ for a while, as their hollow hearts beat like thunder inside bruised ribcages, minds empty as they

_Float_

Just for a little.

Just for a while.

They’ll be back chasing each other again _soon_ , ~~too soon~~ , back to running and shooting and chasing and hiding-

But then the ~~man~~ monster in black, lazy twirling shadows, couches weakly, and then stronger and stronger as their bodies calm down, until it is clear it isn’t couching anymore

-It really isn’t-

It is a deep, multi-layered, growling _rumble_ of a laugh, wheezing out from rotten and healthy and dead and alive lungs. It is a broken and ripped apart voice, something full of static distortion and radio-confusion, from between dry lips in wet full-body shudders. Depthless black smoke, flowing in thin streaks out the corners of his smirk, a mouth layered with rows upon rows of sharp white teeth, and he throws his head back against the door with a thud.

The ~~loving~~ crazed laughing grows stronger and stronger, as his body of shadows regains its strength somewhat, before it abruptly cuts off into hollow silence. A moment passes, then the distorted voice _floats_ steady as the ocean waves in the air between them as he asks-

“Care to treat us to one of those canisters of yours?”

-And from the other side of the thin door comes a hoarse grunt from a voice that hasn’t been used for far too long, then some shuffling of what can’t be anything other than fabric and belts, a clank of metal on metal, then a thud as the small canister is put down _hard_ on the cold concrete underneath them, dust swivelling lazy in the air from being disrupted by the movement as the canister clicks on, and then

_Warmth._

Yellow, lemon and sunflower hard-light that move like flowing water _spills_ out of the top of the little cannister, pouring out onto the floor in a steady stream, phantom existence rendering it unhindered by their mass as it seeps underneath their bodies until it has formed a perfect circle.

Its soft glow soothes something deeply buried inside them as warmth _bleeds_ into their cracked bones and torn skin, healing light spreading underneath and inside in slow waves as it knits together every tear and cut and bruise it comes across, and the warmth travels further, deeper, _higher_ , snapping ribs into their places and pushing metal and bullets out through mending skin.

For twelve seconds, they feel their bodies rapidly repairing themselves. For twelve seconds, there is the warmth of sunshine hugs and cocoa fireplaces nesting deep in their bones, their _souls_. For twelve short, far too short seconds, they can take a little break from everything and just… _soak_ , a little.

There is a weak metallic snap, and then the little light the yellow warmth gave the surroundings and their souls is gone into cold nothing yet again.

The man with dried blood splattered across his pale white hair reaches out with a now steady arm and picks the cold canister up, twisting it in his grasp once, twice, before he puts it back in the holster from which it came. He methodically adjusts the worn belt its fastened to, then lean back to rest against the reinforced door again.

Usually, they would both be long gone by now, back into the familiar dance of hiding and chasing again.

But then, somehow this time is _different_.

But then, somehow this time-

“I’m tired, Jack,” the shadow inside the abandoned apartment whispers, voice wavering and flickering thick with emotion, with ~~longing~~ exhaustion and ~~heartbreak~~ pain, “Tired of this.”

The following silence and lack of movement lies _heavy_ in the humid air, bitter in taste and stinking of rot, although none of them can smell it through the high-tech-filters in their masks. Eventually, a pale hand littered with scars both old and new slowly reaches up, then down, searching between rough fabric and sticky skin until it clasps _tightly_ around thin, polished metal.

Hanging from a sturdy chain, four shapes with engraved letters, soft noises as they collide while slowly being twirled between ~~loving~~ bloodied knuckles in idle motions.

There’s a slight flutter of fabric moving, silent creaks from combat boots as the ~~man~~ monster inside the tiny apartment crosses his legs somewhat, leaning forward on one elbow to rest his head in one hand. Slight shrills of metal on concrete in the air as the clawed glove on his free hand traces thoughtless shapes into the floor. He hums a little, voice straining to sound _human_ , before murmuring slow ~~promises~~ words between them.

“Why do we keep doing this, me and you, always chasing each other, even when death took us?”

-He had always been the one in the room that didn’t talk that much, preferred to be silent and _observe_ , but when in the right company the walls he built always cracked, his thoughts manifesting into words that could be heard outside of his head-

“Why do we, no matter what, end up doing the work the others should be doing, but don’t want to?”

-There was always so much, _too much_ , going on inside his head, clogging up in piles and heaps until he wouldn’t sleep or eat for days at a time, sitting somewhere scribbling furiously on a notepad or a tablet with coffee in one hand to keep his eyes open-

“The dirty work, the shit that needs to be done, the graveyard shift, intel that needs to be gathered some way or another?”

-Always ten, twenty steps in front, in any possible direction, in every possible and even slightly impossible way, brain running miles an hour, knitting together intricate webs of information and connecting threads like a god damn tailor fitting a dress down to _the millimetre_ -

“Why can’t we just let go? Get a break from it all and breathe for once?”

The soldier slumpes against the door, sitting and glancing at the ceiling in the hallway while he just listens, takes a slightly shaking breath through the filters of his mask. Breathing it out slowly, he turns his head to the side, the one where the door handle is above him somewhere, and manages to dig out his ~~~~voice from the clogged up cage its been in, unused for a too long of a while.

“You know I’m bad at this - this talking about feelings thing, Reyes, don’t force me to say something. I’ll… you know I’ll just end up saying the wrong thing - making it _worse_.”

And it’s true, it really is. As long as it was about politics, or about work, or anything the golden boy leading the world-renowned Overwatch needed to talk about, he did so fantastically and with refined finesse. He had a way with it, voice singing honeyed words to all ears that could listen, calming the ~~minds~~ storms of international debate and ~~disarming~~ smothering any ill intends.

There is a slight chuckle of that deep, distorted voice, then a humming sound as if the other really has to _think_ about whether or not that statement is true or not.

“You do have a point there, solider. It might end badly if I let myself listen to you,”

-There is an acknowledging ~~snort~~ grunt from behind the door, then a heavy sigh, as they both let the memory of that play behind their irises in vivid colours and searing screams-

“But then… I’m tired, Jack. I’m so fucking tired.”

The door moans a little as the body against it moves a little, aligning itself more along it as if to hear the other better, and a questioning sound escapes from behind the red visor glowing in the dark hallway.

“I just… I just, for once, I just want to – to just – I want…”

“Reyes.”

“-why the fuck can’t I just – Why does it always have to be us doing – for fucks sake, I just want to – just for once be able to – like any normal fucking human piece of-”

“Reyes.”

“-I’ve always done what I could and what I had to do, but – it’s never enough, is it? Why is it never – and then when I want something, it just – like I can’t just wish for one fucking thing without-”

“Gabriel.”

“I just-”

“Gabe, stop.”

“I-”

“Stop. Talking. You are rambling.”

And he does shut up, goes completely silent again, and they both just _breathe_ for some time, tracing patterns in the ceilings through a red visor or with a clawed glove on the cement floor.

They both know that nothing ~~productive~~ good will come out of it when he gets like _that_ , thoughts jumping together and falling out of his mouth before they are finished and then being cut out by a new one as fast as they appear. They both know, when his mind twists in its shackles like now, that far too much is ~~suffocating~~ clouding his brain and fucking up his thinking process, that it needs to reset itself and fall back into the fine lines it works best in, or he might lose control completely.

It’s not a new thing, nor a healthy one, but it’s the only kind of what maybe should be called a coping mechanism that _works_ whenever too much is working at the same time in Reyes’ head. It’s always been like that, the almost computer-like brain of the ~~man~~ monster forcing itself past the borders of what is considered healthy in its ~~desperation~~ need for processing power. But, it’s just how he works, how he functions best and how he is most comfortable functioning, and Jack…

Jack will never want to make the other into ~~someone~~ something he is not.

So, they sit there, in the silence, until all the fine dust has settled again and the amount of time of them ~~seducing~~ forcing each other away from their new lives reach twenty hours.

Then-

The swirling sound of black shadows coalescing and reforming is heard through the door, and in a moment of ~~paralyzing~~ slight panic the body against the door straightens harshly, muscles tightening to be ready to snap into action because is he _leaving?_  Are they back to ~~daning~~ chasing and ~~playing~~ hiding again?

But with a scratching _click_ , the lock of the door opens, and as he quickly gets up and looks through the opening door through the red plexiglass of his visor, searching for ~~familiar~~ body heat and finding nothing but slight movement down a short hall inside the small room, and two heavy shotguns in black metal laying abandoned on the floor, he knows they’re not back to that just _yet_.

Leaving his heavy pulse rifle leaning on the wall beside the door, either out of respect or muscle memory, he walks slowly down the little hallway with flaking paint on the walls, towards the two openings that once held doors to a bedroom and a bathroom, now stripped so bare of material that the rotting insulation in the walls is showing.

He ~~hestitates~~ pauses in the opening of the bedroom, silently watching as the other man soundlessly glides across the floor, feet turned into shadow and smoke as he goes to stand by the only window in the room, gazing out through partially unbroken glass.

They stand like that for a little, gazing at a shadow clad back and out at the deserted town they are in. What this _is_ , the one with the visor doesn’t know. Why they are not dancing around in that familiar way, shooting and cursing at each other.

It’s not that he prefers that, ~~misses it~~ , but _this_ …

He’s never been good with emotional moments, moments that matter and are significant like this.

So, he’s silent, waiting patiently, because the other man was always the one that lead the path, and wherever it goes he will always follow it, follow _him._

And then, finally-

“I’m afraid, Jack.”

He whispers with that dark smoke of a voice of his, almost so silently that it can’t be heard, broad shoulders sagging as they finally let go of the tension there, an expression of defeat that should never be worn by him, not now, not ever.

“Gabriel… You don’t get afraid, you never are,” he answers, voice gravel and growls, tiny cracks and threads coiling into the skin of his chest, slowly tightening and constricting his breathing, “You never could, _except-_ ”

“Except being afraid of losing you.”

They are silent again, a heavy silence loaded with too many memories and emotions, and the coils tighten their hold on around the soldier’s chest, cuts into his ~~heart~~ muscles and deeper, deeper into his _soul_.

“You ever wonder why I’m never able to finish you off when I have the chance to do so? Why I always end up shooting you in the back and running off to Talon to lick my wounds?”

The soldier looks down to the floor, hands tightening in their leather gloves until his ~~loving~~ scarred knuckles turn white and the material _groans_ in protest at the seams.

“Yes,” he answers with a grunt, emotionless but not cold, only acknowledging.

“You ever wonder why I joined up with Talon at all, why I play this game of being their puppet to order around for the right price?”

“Yes. But I won’t ask, if that’s what this is about,” the soldier replies ~~knowinly~~ silently, gaze moving back to the man by the window, again no emotion behind his words, only answering the questions.

Shadows suddenly explode from the man wearing them as he whips his head around, masked eyes meeting in the dull light of the room, and something akin to a snarl fizzling and distorting in layers of broken growling snaps through the bone white skull on his face.

“WHY?” the shadow ~~demands~~ roars, form falling apart and solidifying rapidly as the two men come mask to mask so quickly it is like he teleported, jumped in space and time in his violent frenzy to get closer fast enough, broad shoulders raised and spiked elbows out from his _seething_ body as his clawed hands twist and curl in the air on their sides, “WHY NOT?”

The only sound that escapes the soldier is a grunt, something between a ~~amused~~ slight snort and a ~~patient~~ frustrated sight, and he turns his head away as his chest tightens further, pain like a web of sharp veins coiling around his heart.

“WHY?” the shadow demands, bending at the waist to follow the retreating glowing visor, to keep their covered faces close as if to read his expressions, voice wavering on the edge of anger and desperation, “ANSWER ME MORRISON.”

And he can’t _take_ this, can’t _stand_ the throbbing from his ripped apart heart and the sound of pain in the others voice, so he answers him, even though he is afraid it’s the wrong thing to say, because damn it he has never been good at this emotional bullshit, he always fucks it up _somehow_ -

“I trust you. I trust you, Reyes,” he breathes, closing his unseeing eyes, even though the visor keeps feeding him visual information through its connective points, “I trust you to do what’s right.”

The shadow is quiet for a moment, absorbing the information, processing it, but it clearly isn’t the right answer, because seconds later he is dissolving and slumping to the floor, knees buckling as he mutters to himself too quietly to be heard, clawed gloves digging into black pants until red seeps through the holes that form.

“I don’t understand, I – you – why, how can you – after all the things I’ve –”

It’s still _too much_ , still _too wrong_ and it _hurts_ too much for the soldier to just stand there and do nothing when the other hurts like this, so he squats down to eye level and does the only thing he can think of doing to try to help, even though he doesn’t understand.

Gently but firmly, he wrestles those ~~beautiful~~ clawed hands out of the now bleeding tights, motorcycle gloved thumbs petting along armoured knuckles ~~softly~~ slowly, leaning in so their foreheads rests on the other’s shoulders lightly, a steady and hopefully reassuring pressure.

A minute goes by, then two, of the soldier just breathing slowly and petting spiked knuckles, and the shadow silently muttering under his breath, sometimes growling in frustration or huffing, arms straining from tensing muscles.

And then, like a switch, the shadows lean in, arms twist out of the petting hands to desperately cling around pale shoulders, clawed fingers twisting into the fabric there. The soldier shuffles his feet out from under him, properly sitting down on the floor, and ends up with a lap full of clinging shadows and trembling limbs, and his heart _hurts so fucking much_ his breath stutters painfully.

He wraps his arms around broad shoulders, and gasps as the throbbing in his chest finally lets up somewhat, for the first time since he lived again, and he is suddenly overcome with the ~~desperation~~ need to hold the other man, hug him closer, his breathing becoming shaky and short.

“Gabriel,” he breathes, dragging his fingers down familiar shoulders and down the muscled back, feelings bursting through the hard-crafted defences of his mind and quickly blurring his senses as he clings and touches and feels the other with a rapidly growing hunger and need, “Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabe.”

There is too much separating them, too much keeping them from each other, and what is left of their armour and clothes after the chase that day is in fast succession _ripped_ off their bodies. The ropes of fabric left of the soldier’s undershirt quickly cut off with glinting claws, the shadow simultaneously turning his chest piece and combat shirt into smoke, and then finally, finally does scarred bronze skin meet against scarred pale skin as they embrace, soaking in the feeling.

The soldiers rip off his motorcycle cloves, scarred bare fingers hungrily familiarizing themselves with new and old scars. He shudders as the claws of the other dig into his back, raking down his broad back and leaving red lines in their wake. His pale hands pet the body in his lap gently, needy, stroking tense shoulders until they go soft and mushy in his hands, before he moves up to the strong neck to do the same.

But then-

The shadow stiffens, all tension returning to his frame so fast the soldier struggles to comprehend the switch from soft flesh to stone cold muscle, pale mask lurching back from the shoulder in was leaning on to stare the other in the eye, shadows and smoke starting to twirl anxiously across bronze skin.

“What did I do, Gabriel? I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“You won’t want me, Jack.”

“What?”

“You won’t _want_ me, if you see what’s under my mask. This body, my face, if you saw it you would be disgusted. You would _leave_ _me_ ,” and there, his voice hitches, gives out, and it’s his turn to face away, “You only want the memory of me. You don’t want what I’ve _become_.”

Silence stretches around them again, engulfs them slowly as the soldier is struck mute by the words hanging in the air, the pain and sorrow and desperation and hurt within them. He turns his head down, just slightly, and lets himself see the body in his lap, switching filters on his visor with barely a thought.

He sees it, then, the vitiligo-looking flecks of white that move like milk refusing to blend in coffee, the flesh turning rapidly between dead and alive, switching between being searing warmth and a cold that is stealing his body heat beneath his fingers, between heat of a fireplace and a fresh pillow in the winter.

And for _once_ in his life, the soldier thinks he understands what he needs to say.

“You are afraid of me abandoning you, aren’t you? That I won’t ever want to have anything to do with you anymore after I see who you have had to become to follow through with your plans?”

The shadows along bronze skin flickers rapidly as the other stops breathing, air trapped in his lungs, panic visible in his tight shoulders, claws that doesn’t seem to decide if they want to release pale skin or dig in to never let go, body shaking with unfamiliar fear and dread and desperation and-

“I love you, Gabriel.”

The body in the soldier’s lap stills, freezes unnaturally, and for a moment the soldier is worried that it finally has become too much for the shadow, but he continues anyway-

“I love how your mind always picks up connections and clues so easily and so long before anyone else. I love how you always have worked out any and all possible and impossible ways something can go - and have plans for all of them. I love your wit, your sharp tongue, your snarky sarcasm, your intolerance for bullshit and manipulation, your way of always finding out the truth, hell, even the fact that you think salt isn’t a spice and that my taste in food is so white I could be the torch of Gondor in trying times. I love you for _you_ , no matter what package you come in,”

-The shaking is back, this time violent and in the both of them, and the soldier takes an uneven breath as he reaches up for his visor, fingers finding the safety latch and flicking it open before they glide to the opening mechanism, pausing-

“But if you don’t want me to leave you because of your new looks, then I will _only_ look at you with my blind eyes, so I can stay with you and follow you wherever you lead us to.” he finishes, digging the nail of his thumb into the opening on his visor, making it click and then detach from the muzzle of his headpiece, visuals of the world abruptly cutting off into darkness as he blinks tears away from his blank eyes.

He lets his eyes stare sightlessly in the direction he knows is towards the other’s collarbone, fingers holding his visor lowering it to the ground beside them and letting go before reaching up to entwine both hands around the muscled neck in front of him, thumbs digging slow circles in the yet again tense muscles he finds there.

The shadow takes a harsh breath, then another, slightly slower one, before the soldier feels movement under his fingers and suddenly there is hands against his cheekbones, warm hands with dry fingertips and sharp nails gently tracing his nose, his lips, the twin scars cutting two diagonal lines down his face, the stubble on his jaw, the receding hairline.

Then the silent sound of shadows and smoke coalescing and reforming close shudders in the air for a moment. And then-

Soft, slightly capped and blending between warm and cold lips meets slightly bitten and dry ones, the touch hesitant and cautious, fleeting and barely-there. They both inhale sharply through their uncovered noses, coffee brown goatee and grey morning stubble rubbing against each other for a moment, and when the shadows try to move away, back into the darkness the soldier cannot see-

“Gabriel,” he mumbles against the retreating lips, trying to follow, pale knuckles twisting into long curls to try to keep him close, and he whines hoarsely from the back of his throat, tears gathering at the corners of his unseeing eyes that had closed sometime during the fleeting touches, “Gabriel, _please_.”

A bronze skinned thumb drags across the bottom lip of the touch-starved soldier, softly silencing the desperate murmuring breathed between them, soothing the other wordlessly. Be patient, it says, even when the nail gets momentarily caught on the jagged scar that never healed well as it pets across bruised lips.

Then, the shadow lets out a wet sob, ebony curls of soft hair falling around them both like a curtain as their foreheads touch, noses meeting while honeyed eyes drink in the sight of deeper wrinkles and new scars, of creamy but somehow still impossible blue eyes and a nose that is permanently crooked from being broken over and over.

And then their lips meet again, and again, while clawed fingers twist themselves into tinning bleached locks of hair and strong hands knead broad thighs, emotions wreaking havoc in their chests and feelings thundering through their hearts in shattering tidal waves of raw, deep hurt and longing and buried love.

They palm desperately at each other, voices stuttering and loaded with too many memories as they whisper and croak words of apologies between their lips-

“I’m sorry-“

And

“I never should’ve-“

And

“I hurt you-“

And

“I love you. I love you, please don’t leave me again-“

They whisper and touch until the bone-deep desperation in their bodies calm, until the gaping holes littering their hearts stops bleeding, until there is nothing left to say and all they can do is hold each other.

Breathless, the shadow snickers against tear-streaked cheeks, tongue darting out to lick the wetness off his own lips, kissing down strong brows to a pale neck, mouth pressing against the pulse point there to remind them that yes, this is real, they are alive, with hearts beating blood under their skin even now.

“…Why didn’t I just tell you this sooner, Jackie? Why haven’t you tied me up somewhere and hugged me like this _already_?”

The soldier’s chest vibrates pleasingly as he rumbles out a short laugh, a hand coming up to pet the perfectly trimmed goatee before him before he answers with a slightly more sombre tone.

“Well. About that… I really wanted to just stop this nonsense we have had going on for a while, but… From my point of view…” he mumbles, hesitating slightly before he continues more silently, “Gabriel, I… Imagine this, that I... Just try, try to be the reason your partner is afraid, imagine that feeling for me, would you? Then tell me, what was I supposed to do? How do you handle a situation like that without sending off the wrong signals?”

He can’t see the other do it, but he feels it with the hand still petting the other’s beard that the shadow in his lap nods slightly, acknowledging that he is listening, and the solider stutters on a breath as he tries to formulate his thoughts into words and sentences that won’t be the wrong ones.

“I didn’t want to hurt you, Gabe… You have already hurt enough. If you feared the confrontation that much, I was more than content to just follow you. I am content with just following you. But I would _never_ abandon you.”

They are silent again as the shadow processes this, lets himself be held and pet as he thinks.

And then he begins huffing out his silent laugh again, breaths of smoky and warm giggles rolling in the air as he lets himself collapse forwards into strong arms that he knows always will be there to catch him, and then he rasps against a solid chest-

“We are such dramatic old men, aren’t we Jackie?”

“Talk for yourself, there is no way I would be able to keep up with the amount of drama and flair a theatre kid like yourself would make in a situation like _this_ -“

“Morrison, I swear to god if you go there I will-“

“-but then again, we _are_ two men that are known for not being able to talk about our feelings even if our lives depends on it-“

“Jack you little shit-“

“-like, we couldn’t have any of that usual going to couple therapy and shit like people that aren’t complete utter bastards _usually_ do when things won’t work out-“

“I know you are deliberately not listening to me right now-“

“-the _horror_ of doing such a meaningful reunion of sorts into something so simple is just insulting isn’t it-“

“WILL YOU KINDLY SHUT UP FOR A SECOND AND LET ME _FINISH_?”

“…”

“Thank _you_ ,” he breathes, irritation evident in his voice although he is laughing under his breath as well, and the soldier just smiles that infuriatingly knowing smile of his that manages to produce sunshine even in the dully lit room.

“I missed you, Jackie.”

“Missed you too, sugartits.”

“Jack what did I JUST say-“

“I’m joking, I’m joking. Calm down, you know I just can’t stand emotional moments for too long or I’ll turn into a gremlin like I tend to do after too much _Ikea_.”

“I’m trying to make a point here.”

“Then get to it, we’ve been dancing around this for too long already, yeah?”

“For _fucks_ sake Morrison-“

And he whines, he actually fucking _whines_ at him and pulls out his pouty face like that of a puppy having to wait for too long for their treat, and the shadow can’t keep a straight face at that because his fucking husband won’t just let him have _this_ -

“You better be glad I love your flat ass or I would have shot you right now, you know?”

“It’s _definitely_ flat from sitting on concrete with two hundred pounds of husband material in its lap for three hours, I can agree to that.”

“You are supposed to say you love me back to that and then kiss me, you _bastard_.”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting there sometime, just have to sass you properly to get back the _years_ I’ve missed.”

“Boy-scout.”

“Edgy punk.”

And they laugh, giggle against each other’s’ lips as they meet in giddy kisses, throwing loving pet-names and accusations without heat between them like lovesick teenagers.

“Be _nice_.”

“No, YOU be nice, I’m a blind man and I’m _honestly_ feeling so attacked right now.”

He fake-gasps, hand reaching for his heart as he swoons, “You did _not_ go there!”

Grinning like the shit he is the soldier shrugs and tilts his head, voice dipping into the stern tone of a commander lecturing an uneducated recruit that is laced with steel and makes the shadow shiver from pleasant memories in his lap, “Hey! Memes are _important_ cultural research and you know it, beautiful.”

“I’m not beautiful, I don’t have time for that, you are just saying it to get in my pants,” he retorts, arms coming to hang lazily over pale shoulders as he presses close, chests sliding against each other as they breathe the same air.

The grin slowly gets a familiar dangerous edge as scarred hands drag down bronze skin to dig into the hips they find, gripping on the edge of nearly painful as they force them to grind down slowly. His vice dips even lower then, and he moves his lips to the others to whisper, “Gabriel… I don’t _need_ to say anything to get in your pants, you WANT me in your pants.”

The full-body shudder and sharp inhale followed by a barely strangled moan is a satisfying answer to the soldier, pleased to find the slowly grinding hips against his own steadily growing a hardness in the front to match his own.

“You _sure_ about that?” the shadow murmurs, a little breathless, “Think you still got what it takes to get me going, even when I’ve given up trying to feel beautiful and accepted the monster that I am?”

“I’m _very_ _sure_ about that. That, and that for you, there is absolutely no reason not to be beautiful. Whip out your cock, I’ll prove it to you.”

“You are such a disrespectful loverboy, I might actually shoot you.”

 

(more?)

 “Yeah...Keep trying and don’t laugh at people in an evil way.”


End file.
